Florence smiled with her. “Actually, Greta, I was thinking I could do it.”
Greta frowned. “Do what?”
“Finish it. I’ve worked with Helen more closely than anyone else, other than you of course. I know her voice. I know how she thinks. Besides, you said I had talent. You even said I reminded you of her.”
Greta nodded slowly. “I did. I did say that.” She took a sip of her drink and glanced at the table next to them, where two young women were staging a photo of their cocktails. “And I stand by it; you do have a lot of potential. But this would be a delicate undertaking, Florence. I think for a project like this, given…everything.… Well, why don’t we just see what we have before we make any decisions about how to move forward.”
Florence stared back at Greta without speaking. The camera at the table next to them flashed. Greta flinched. Florence did not.
“Greta,” Florence said calmly. “I have a broken wrist and two fractured ribs. I have no job and no place to live. And not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re the one who got me into this predicament. You were Helen’s accomplice, witting or not.”
Greta had grown pale again. But Florence couldn’t let up now.
“You can denounce Helen’s crimes all you want, but you also profited from them. How much did you make off of Mississippi Foxtrot? What other opportunities did it attract? You’re a party to her crimes—both of them. I’m the victim.”
Greta stared back at Florence without saying anything.
“I’m not asking for a million dollars here, Greta. I’m just asking for a chance. That’s all. A foot in the door. I don’t think that’s out of bounds, all things considered.” She took a sip of her wine. “Do you?”
“Florence,” Greta finally said. “I understand where you’re coming from, and you’re right—I am partly complicit in some of this. I certainly don’t take that lightly. But I cannot in good conscience let you write Maud Dixon’s next book simply because you were victimized by her. You probably do deserve some form of compensation, but I can’t tell you right now that this is it. I’m sorry.”
Florence sat very still. Then she shook her head and smiled. “You’re right, Greta, of course you are. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s been a very long few days.” Underneath the table she gripped the strap of her bag with white knuckles.
“I’m sure. This has been a lot to take in for me too. Let’s just digest all this for a moment. Do you want another drink? I’d say we both deserve one under the circumstances.”
She looked around for the waiter, even though both of their glasses were still half full.
Florence nodded and reached for hers, but she missed and knocked the entire glass over. The dark red wine splashed onto Greta’s silk blouse and pooled in her lap. Greta and Florence both jumped up.
“I’m so sorry,” Florence exclaimed, patting at Greta’s chest ineffectually with the paper doily. Greta pushed her hands away.
“It’s alright. Just leave it. Leave it. I’ll go clean up in the ladies’ room. Excuse me a moment.”
Greta walked quickly out of the room, holding her wet shirt away from her body.
Florence sat back down. A man in a tuxedo started playing a grand piano in the corner. The table next to her erupted in laughter at some shared joke.
Greta returned a few minutes later. If anything, the stain looked worse.
“I’m so sorry,” Florence repeated.
“It’s alright. Really. My dry cleaner in Manhattan is something of a miracle worker. Let’s move on. Did you order more?” She finished the rest of her own wine in a single gulp, grimacing slightly.
“No, I thought you might want to go change. And to be honest, I’m not feeling that great. The pain medication I’m on makes me feel a little woozy. I mean, clearly. Maybe we could just get room service in your room or something? Eating usually helps.”
“Oh. Um…sure. We could do that. Let me just tell the waiter to put this on my bill.”
48.
I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Greta said as she opened the door to her suite.
The room was large and bright with a mosaic of tiles running along the walls and a giant king bed. It was immaculate but for a sweater tossed over the back of a chair in the corner.
Florence walked over to the window and looked out. Below lay a vast garden planted with rows of orange trees. The moon was just visible in the darkening sky.
Greta handed the room service menu to Florence. “Order anything you want. And take a water from the minibar.”
Florence sat in the chair and perused the menu while Greta changed clothes in the bathroom. When she emerged, she sat down on the bed and rubbed her face. “God, I’m exhausted,” she said.
Florence nodded. “I’m not surprised.”
Greta closed her eyes, and for a moment Florence thought she’d fallen asleep sitting up. Then she opened them and struggled to speak. “What were we…”
Florence sat down next to Greta and eased her back onto the bed so that she was lying down. “I know how you feel. You’ve had a shock.”
Greta looked up at her, her blue eyes wide with plaintive confusion.
“It’s hydrocodone,” Florence explained. “That’s the pain medication they gave me at the hospital after the accident. I stopped taking it because I don’t like the way it makes me feel. So foggy, right?”
Greta nodded. “Foggy…Yes…But you…”
“Why don’t you just close your eyes for a bit?”
Like a child, Greta obeyed. Florence sat watching her for a moment. She was surprised that the pills had worked as quickly as they had. She’d ground up four of them—one more than she’d given Whitney—at the hotel and put the powder into Greta’s drink while she’d been trying to salvage her shirt.
When Florence was sure that Greta was unconscious, she retrieved a pair of plastic gloves from her purse. She snapped them on, then pulled out a crumpled paper bag. Inside was a brand-new syringe, a baggie of grayish powder, and an elastic band. She had found these on Helen’s corpse in the seconds before Idrissi’s arrival: all the tools necessary for the heroin overdose Helen had planned for Florence.
She’d had to improvise in Semat, but now, in Greta’s hotel room, Florence worked slowly and methodically. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time.
She went into the bathroom and poured the powder into a glass on the counter. Then, from her purse, she took the box of rat poison she’d bought on her way to the hotel. She sprinkled that into the cup too. She’d learned through her research online that rodenticide was one of the most common—and deadly—substances with which street heroin was cut.
No more half measures.
She added a splash of water and swirled the cloudy mixture around in the glass.
She peeked inside a marble canister on the counter and found a wad of cotton balls. She took one out and held it over a second glass while she filtered the gritty liquid through it.
That afternoon, she’d watched a YouTube video containing step-by-step instructions on shooting up, which had been uploaded by a needle exchange program in Columbus, Ohio.